


Golden Light

by CherryK



Series: Azeroth and Beyond - A Collection of Cherry's OC Shenanigans [2]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Healing, M/M, Medical Procedures, which may or may not be accurate because I'm not a doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 19:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18350402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryK/pseuds/CherryK
Summary: The aftermath of battle is never pretty, field medic Árondal thinks - until Celedan shows up with a bruise that needs treating.





	Golden Light

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what time this is actually set in, but I know for sure that it's post the Lich King's attack on Quel'thalas and pre Legion. Whatever floats your boat.
> 
> Kindly take anything medical mentioned in this fic with a grain of salt. I did some research but I'm no professional.
> 
> Also yes, the summary sounds like it's from some bad doctor porn, but... there are no dicks here. Not yet. :3c

It’s the quiet before the storm, air laden with anticipation.

How many will return injured? Were there any casualties? How many will succumb to their wounds in the aftermath of battle? Árondal pushes these questions aside, deciding to answer them only with the facts at hand – it does not do to dwell on worst case scenarios. After all, this is not his first time in the field as a medic. Standing by without any ability to prevent damage from happening. Only mending, stitching, curing what has already been ruined. Praying the patient’s condition will improve enough for them to be able to live on normally. Knowing that they won’t, with the horrors they’ve encountered on the battlefield…

The medic is shaken from his trance at the sound of voices shouting commands outside the tent. The battalion returns – time for Árondal to get his own hands bloodied.

First come the ones near the brink of death. The more experienced healers rush them to the back of the tent and begin to work their wonders.

Then come the soldiers with less dire injuries – dislocated joints, broken bones, whatever may ail them shall be taken care of.

Last come the minor grievances. A cut that may need stitching, a small burn caused by the enemy’s magic… finally, a varlet supporting an exhausted blood knight approaches Árondal.

Not an emergency, then. Very well.

“Ser, are you free? Would you be able to, ah, lend me a hand? An arm, rather?” The elf, clearly of lower rank than the knight they are keeping upright, struggles under their superior’s weight. Árondal rushes to their side as quickly as his own disabled leg will take him and does his best to keep some of the knight’s weight off them as they both guide the injured to a free stretcher. The paladin winces as he is set down, but otherwise appears fine enough (and most importantly conscious, Árondal thinks), safe for an indentation in the side of his armour. The varlet exhales as though they had been holding their breath and lingers around the medic anxiously.

“Sir Blightbane has been hit by the broadsword of a human footman. His armour has prevented the worst, but I fear the dent may have caused some damage…”

 “Understood… I suppose the footman paid for his actions?” Árondal hums. “Might I ask you to wait outside the tent? This should not take too long, I hope.”

The varlet nods, relief bringing a softer expression to their face. With a shaking hand they wipe a short, stray lock of hair from their forehead. “Gladly Ser, thank you!”

“Great, now that you two are done talking, would you kindly help me out of this ruined thing,” a rather tense blood knight requests impatiently from his spot on the stretcher.

“Of course, of course, my apologies.” With practiced ease Árondal unfastens the metal chestpiece, careful not to push into the wound further. Sir Blightbane watches his hands’ every move with a certain kind of fascination.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

Árondal smiles, almost wistfully. “Indeed, I have. I… used to wear armour bearing this very same red crest.”

Blightbane’s eyes widen. He grits his teeth as the medic slips the armour off his torso and sets it aside.

“You were a blood knight.” The paladin sharply sucks in a breath as the chainmail is lifted over his head. Only a battered and torn tunic left to discard. “Why did you leave? If I may ask, that is.”

“I did not choose to leave, although I am committed to this – healing – now.” With a knife he cuts apart the tunic, exposing bronzed skin underneath. For a moment his eyes linger on the expanse of skin, before he turns his attention to the large, bloodied bruise marring the left side of Blightbane’s abdomen. “Like you, I was injured in battle. A hatchet laced with poison. The healers feared for my life, and even as my condition stabilized chances stood high that I would lose my leg. …Which miraculously I did not, but the incident prevents me from mounting a steed or wearing heavy armour ever again.”

Recognition flickers across the knight’s face. “So the rumors prove true. Lord Árondal Dawnweaver serves as a field medic now. Truthfully, I’d spent some time wondering what had become of you after you bowed out so suddenly following your recovery.”

Árondal meets his eyes, his hand holding a wet linen cloth stills in mid-air. Despite his title he has never paid much mind to noble gossip, and thus has spent the past months in the dark in regards to talk about his own person. It shouldn’t surprise him that the tale has also made rounds among his former brothers and sisters.  He searches his memory, unsure whether or not he has encountered Blightbane before. Yet nothing comes to mind.

“It’s not like we’ve met before. Formally, I mean. I had only just been knighted when,” the paladin gestures towards Árondal’s leg, but quickly drops his arm again when pain shoots through his torso, “that happened. _Belore_ , that hurts.”

That would explain things.

Árondal turns his attention back to the crust of dried blood at the centre of Blightbane’s haematoma and begins to cautiously dab at it. Luckily the dented metal has only left a shallow cut that has healed over already. “I see… I am afraid I did not mingle much with the younger knights in the order.”

Blightbane’s expression sets somewhere between stoic and pained as the dried flakes of blood slowly come off. “I won’t say you missed out, but… well yes, perhaps you did. Either way, it’s a noble path you’ve taken, Lord Dawnweaver. Admirable.”

Something warm settles in the medic’s belly. Pride, perhaps? That must be it. He places a hand over the other’s side, feeling for further injury. Blightbane avoids breathing in too much air. His skin is warm and smooth underneath Árondal’s fingers – not yet littered with the blemishes brought on by war.

“Árondal. Please. I would much prefer to confine the formalities to Silvermoon.” He has reached the darkest part of the bruise and gently applies pressure to it. The paladin does suck in a breath through his teeth then, fingers digging into the edge of the stretcher.

“Aaaahrondal-“ he wheezes, “Pleasure. My name’s Celedan, if we’re doing away with titles.”

“My apologies, Celedan,” The medic offers a smile, “It does seem as though your ribs have survived the force of the impact, though. I cannot find any broken ones.”

 “Well, that’s a relief,” Celedan sighs.

“I can offer some… well, in quite the literal sense, _light_ treatment to alleviate the pain for now, if you wish.”

A chuckle, followed by a hiss of pain. “Ah, good one… that’s an offer I can’t refuse, though. Work your magic, please.” Celedan leans back, propped up on his hands behind him. The pose clearly hurts, but definitely allows for better access.

Árondal utters a quick prayer, calling forth holy magic until has hands emit a soft golden glow. He brings them up to Celedan’s skin again and closes his eyes to focus.  
Using the Light to heal rather than harm feels… warm. Secure. Sort of like coming home after a long day, when he sheds his cloak at the door and sinks into his favourite armchair in front of the fireplace, where a hot cup of his favourite herbal tea awaits him. It gives him a sense of peace like nothing else has ever done, and once again he is glad to have taken up this profession. He cannot force a person’s body to recover all at once, but the least he can do is help speed up the process.

The paladin seems to be holding his breath again. Árondal registers goosebumps under his fingers as he works on the bruise. He halts his movements and looks up at his patient.

“Is this alright? Too much?”

All he gets for an answer is a pleased hum, paired with an expression that vaguely reminds him of a languidly lounging cat being brushed.

“Just… don’t stop what you’re doing.”

Something about the way he says it brings back that warmth, lights Árondal up from the inside, and brings a smile to his face. He resumes his work, watches Celedan’s eyes flutter shut. Árondal knows the knee-buckling feeling of relief that floods through the body in such a moment, yet has scarcely seen someone react so openly. He swallows around words that seem meaningless, forces his mind to calm. It almost feels intimate to be touching him; the rest of the tent around them is reduced to a blur of colour and white noise. How strongly his pale hands contrast with Celedan’s darker skin, yet the healing spell’s golden glow complements it perfectly…

Much too soon for Árondal’s tastes he has to take his hands away, as the spell only affects the wound to a certain extent. He exhales a breath he has held for too long. Celedan leans forward slowly, testing his boundaries post-treatment, and appears pleased with the result. The bruise does look lighter than before.

Árondal is unsure what to do with his hands now. He begins to fidget with the hem of his sleeve, where a thread has come loose, and breaks the silence. “If… Should the pain not subside at all or should you experience difficulties breathing within the next few days I would advise you to see a healer once more.”

The paladin nods, “Of course, of course. Trust this will heal nicely, thanks to you.”

 “It would also be best to refrain from… putting too much strain on the wound. Any sort of challenging activity… ” Árondal clears his throat.

At that Celedan raises an eyebrow, seems to think for a moment. Árondal thinks he sees something impish glinting in his eyes, but doesn’t know what to make of it.

“So… does asking a certain medic out for a drink after work count as too strenuous an activity? Because if it doesn’t…”

Árondal is about to reply, the medic’s mind still focused solely on giving useful advice, but he reconsiders and blinks at him for a moment before the words really click into place. Celedan’s expression is hopeful; face framed by silken, but slightly dishevelled black hair.

“That is… I mean, no, it certainly isn’t, I-“ Árondal takes a breath to try and calm his nerves, and fumbles for a way to respond that doesn’t make him sound too enthusiastic, like an elf in his youth who has been asked out for the very first time. He feels his ears turning hot.

Celedan sighs, his ego deflating visibly in the face of Árondal’s hesitation. “Sorry, that was kind of unprofessional now, wasn’t it...? I’m just some random guy with a bruise and you’re…”

“No!” Árondal bursts out, promptly feeling the eyes of another medic from across the tent on him, and tones down his voice, “No, don’t say that, it’s alright, I,” He takes another breath, feeling a little light-headed, “What I actually meant to say, but failed to express so grandly, is that… I would like that.”

 “You... do you mean that? Really?”

Árondal chuckles. “Well, what exactly would I gain by lying?” Celedan just shrugs half-heartedly, a trace of a smile dawning on his face.

 “Truth be told, I… find you to be quite charming, Celedan Blightbane. Getting to know you better over a glass of wine sounds like a good way to spend my evening.”

Now he watches the tips of the paladin’s ears turn red. The colour quite suits him, he thinks.

Árondal dismisses Celedan then, pleased with the result of his treatment – and their conversation. The medic watches him exit the tent, pieces of armour tucked under his arms, an undeniable spring in his step, and the torn tunic hanging uselessly across his shoulders.

The battle they’ve fought here is won, but the army will have some packing to do before moving homeward. They have agreed to meet at the Silvermoon Inn tavern on the first eve of their return to the city. Árondal finds himself excited to see Celedan again, and spends a quiet moment painting a colourful picture of the future in his mind, before he is called to assist with another injury.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you from the bottom of my heart if you're reading this! This is my first OC work I'm posting here and uh, I have no idea if people even read such things... never know until you try I guess.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated!


End file.
